The Mirror Mirror on the Wall Affair
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: A supposedly simple mission turns into a night of danger as Napoleon and Illya search for an artifact in an old, abandoned house.


_Notes: the characters aren't mine, and the story is! This is a giftfic for LuckyLadybug, who convinced me to check out this series and I subsequently fell for it—and Napoleon and Illya. This fic references the events of a previous oneshot "The Forget Me Not Affair," and briefly mentions the events of another oneshot, "The Moonlit Gulch Affair." There are some supernatural/otherworldly themes in this one…_

* * *

"Remind me again…" Illya grumbled, as he and Napoleon trudged towards the old house. "How did we end up with this assignment? Trying to find some unspecified object in an abandoned house because THRUSH wants it?"

"Because Mr. Waverly wanted my first mission back from my bout of amnesia to be an easy one," Napoleon said.

"Easy?" Illya queried. "We do not even know what it is we are looking for—or why THRUSH wants it!"

"Well, THRUSH agents have been coming here every night without fail; clearly, whatever it is they're looking for is still there," Napoleon said. "And it's not just THRUSH, either—agents from KAOS and V.I.L.E. have been seen searching here, and even former members of what was once the Third Way. Of course, our own colleagues have been searching for it—as well as G-men."

"And nobody knows what exactly is in there?" Illya asked.

"All we know is that there's something in there that can cause a person to go out of their mind with fear," Napoleon said. "We know THRUSH loves that kind of stuff, so that's why they've been skulking around."

"…Yes, they do love that kind of stuff," Illya echoed, a dark tone slipping into his voice. "I know that all too well."

Napoleon winced. The events that had transpired at Club Thanatopsis still upset the Russian—that Barnaby Partridge had succeeded in brainwashing Illya into turning against him. Barnaby had been doing something with the fear response; Illya hadn't divulged exactly what he had been through, and though Napoleon suspected that it had something to do with him, he didn't press the matter. And though they had moved on and nearly a year had passed since the event, it was still clear that it troubled Illya that it happened at all.

"Look, Illya…"

"Never mind, Napoleon."

"I don't hold it against you-"

"And I appreciate that, but this is not the time. We have to find whatever it is Mr. Waverly wanted us to find. And are you certain you are up for a mission? You did have amnesia, after all."

Napoleon grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Never felt better," he assured him, and then he smirked mischievously. "Don't forget, I didn't have any physical trauma in connection with this amnesia; it was—literally—all in my head."

"…Well, now I _know_ you're completely well; you're making puns about it…" Illya said, facepalming. "Telling me not to forget about your amnesia…! That is…"

"Clever?"

" _Painful_."

Napoleon laughed, drawing an arm around Illya and pulling him close as they approached the front steps of the old house. Napoleon took a moment to give the house a once-over; in the light of the full moon, the shattered windows stood out among the old, wooden siding that had once been painted a melancholy gray—with wooden boards sealing the broken windows up from within.

Illya's shoulders suddenly went rigid, and the Russian turned around

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, looking out among the overgrown lawn. A mist swirled around them, obscuring their vision of anything beyond five feet ahead.

"I thought I heard something…" Illya murmured.

"…This isn't you trying to scare me because you hated my puns, is it?"

" _Napoleon_ …!"

"OK, OK…" Napoleon said, drawing his Special with one hand while still keeping an arm around Illya. He froze as he heard the sound of a stick cracking. "…I heard it that time."

Illya had drawn his Special, as well.

Neither of them moved; they stayed in that position for a while, until-

"Good evening, _Messieurs_ ," a voice spoke, cheerfully.

Napoleon and Illya stared as THRUSH executive Victor Marton materialized seemingly out of nowhere from the fog to stand right beside them.

" _You_!?" Illya fumed.

"So it would seem," Marton said, smirking in a manner that incensed Illya more and more by the moment. He gazed up at the house with a look of approval. "Such atmosphere this place has, _non_? I shall enjoy this search very much. And, of course, I assume that we are all searching for the same thing? _Bonne chance_ , _Messieurs_!"

And, with that, Marton opened the door of the old house and strode in as if he belonged there.

"Give me one good reason why I should not shoot him where he stands," Illya hissed, through gritted teeth.

"Well, for one thing, he could've easily done it to us first, but he didn't."

"Fine. You be the sentimental blockhead, and I shall be the pragmatist!"

Illya raised his Special, but Napoleon gently pulled his arm down.

"And the other thing is that the rumor mill has it on _very_ reliable authority that Marton was once on our side—and was Mr. Waverly's partner twenty years ago. And if that is the case, even if Marton is THRUSH now, if anyone did kill him, I am pretty sure that Mr. Waverly's retribution would be swift and painful."

"What makes you say that?" Illya asked.

"…That'd be my response," Napoleon said, giving the Russian a long look.

"…You really _are_ a sentimental blockhead."

"And I know you mean that in the best possible way," Napoleon finished, giving Illya's shoulders a quick squeeze before withdrawing his arm from around them. "Now let's go try to find… whatever it is before Marton does."

"And hope no one else shows up here tonight," Illya added.

Napoleon nodded in agreement and led the way inside. Both he and Illya blinked at the vast number of mirrors hanging on the walls of the hallway, and it soon became clear, as they entered the old drawing room, that the entire house had numerous mirrors all over the walls—mirrors of all shapes and sizes.

"What is this—a sad imitation of a funhouse?" Napoleon mused.

"Whoever lived here last must have been incredibly vain," Illya concluded.

"Well…" the American mused, as he and Illya stopped at a particularly ornate-framed mirror above the fireplace. "Either you've got it or you haven't." He demonstrated by adjusting his tie as he looked at his reflection, and grinned mischievously as Illya's reflection rolled his eyes skyward.

"Is this really the time, Napoleon-?"

The both of them were cut off by the sounds of shattering glass and frustrated French cursing. Illya cheered up immediately.

"Oh, it sounds as though Marton is not having much luck," he said, gleefully.

Napoleon couldn't help but snark as Illya led the way to the study, where Marton was furiously kicking shards of a mirror as he looked at a document in his hand.

"Having trouble, Marton?" Illya asked, innocently.

"Let's just say I am beginning to understand why no one has found the desired item," Marton growled. "I was told that the item in question was documented in a paper that was hidden in a secret panel in the study." Marton furiously threw the document onto the table. " _Regardez_!"

Napoleon picked up the document and aimed his flashlight at it as Marton vented his frustrations by shattering another mirror.

"'It is with a genuine concern that I warn all who pass this way about the Cursed Mirror that hangs in this house,'" he read aloud, for Illya's benefit. "'The Cursed Mirror houses a dark being that feeds off of the deepest fears of he who looks into the glass it resides in. The unfortunate soul is then doomed to be a prisoner of his own fears and descend into madness, lest he break free from the being's hold and destroy the mirror.'"

Illya rolled his eyes again.

"Do you mean to tell me we wasted our time over some superstitious nonsense!?"

"Well, let me put it this way, _Tovarisch_ , if it were real, we'd have a heck of a time trying to find out which of the countless mirrors is the one we're looking for. Between here and the hall alone, we must have passed more than two dozen mirrors; it's safe to assume that each room is full of them."

"Well, at least now we can go back and tell Mr. Waverly that we needn't bother with this house again," Illya sighed.

"And I must relay the same to THRUSH Central," Marton muttered. "…Still, at least the house is nice."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances at this; Napoleon shrugged and Illya shook his head. The duo soon turned to leave, and Marton, still bitter about having wasted his time, followed quietly.

"So, I was thinking, Illya…" Napoleon said as they headed back to the front hall. "We've got some extra time on our hands since this mission never got anywhere. What say we sit down and have a nice dinner somewhere at one of those downtown eateries?"

"When have I ever refused food?"

"Of course. What was I thinking…?" Napoleon trailed off as he tried to open the front door. It didn't budge. "Well, that's strange; it must have gotten stuck…" He kicked at the door several times, and then cursed as he began to nurse a hurt ankle as the kicks achieved nothing but pain.

"The standards for Survival School appear to have gone down since my days as a trainee," Marton scoffed.

"I suppose you think you can do better?" Napoleon asked. "Be my guest, then."

"Were I but younger, I would have taken you up on that challenge," Marton mused. "Perhaps Monsieur Kuryakin will have better luck."

Illya sneered at him for a moment, but then attempted to kick the door down, as well, without success.

"This is your doing, isn't it?" he accused Marton.

"Monsieur Kuryakin, you saw me go directly to the study!" Marton countered. "I did not linger near this door! You two were the ones who took your own sweet time with it; I should be accusing _you_!"

"You may not have been near the door, but you could just as easily have had an accomplice do this for you while we were heading for the study!" Illya countered. "Isn't that right, Napoleon?"

There was no answer from the American, prompting the Russian and the Frenchman to look in his direction. Napoleon was leaning against the wall; sweat was pouring down his face as he held his ankle in both hands and balanced on one leg. Illya could see that the ankle Napoleon was nursing had a deep purple mark on it.

"Napoleon?" Illya asked, concerned.

"I… I think I sprained it when I tried to kick the door down," Napoleon said, sinking to the ground. "I'm… I'm sure it'll be fine after a few minutes."

"It is best not to take any chances; you may have gotten a fracture," Illya said. "Would you allow me to look at it?"

"Sure, but be careful with it; it hurts like—OW!"

Napoleon let out an involuntary bellow as Illya attempted to examine the ankle with his hands.

"Really, Monsieur Solo, surely you are not _that_ afraid of pain?" Marton scoffed. "Your reputation for holding out during intense questioning sessions appears to be exaggerated, based upon what I'm seeing."

"I don't need your commentary," Napoleon hissed, and he looked back at Illya with a frown. "I said be careful with it! I don't know why, but it hurts worse than anything I've ever been through before…"

"It's not your first broken bone, assuming it is broken," Illya said, trying to examine it again, more gently than before.

"Yeah, well, whatever it is— _OW_! _Illya_!"

"I am sorry!" Illya exclaimed, backing off; Napoleon usually had a high pain tolerance, and an ankle, whether sprained or broken, should not have drawn such a sharp response—especially not when tended to by Illya, whose extracurricular pathology classes had given him an excellent understanding of the human body and how to handle injuries.

Napoleon shut his eyes, breathing through gritted teeth.

"I really am sorry, Napoleon," Illya said again.

"It's fine," Napoleon said, rather brusquely. "Just get me a plank of wood long enough for me to use it as a splint and a rope to tie it on with."

Illya managed to get a plank that was hammered over one of the broken windows and some old curtain cords to use as a makeshift rope.

"Would you like me to put the splint on?"

"No!" Napoleon said, a little hastily. "No; I'll do it myself."

Illya watched him, still wondering what the source of Napoleon's lessened pain tolerance was. Could it be possible that this was a residual effect of the amnesia? That didn't make much sense to Illya, but it certainly couldn't be ruled out—and definitely not at this point. At any rate, Napoleon would need to go to Medical, though he was sure to go against the idea.

Napoleon now struggled to get to his feet; Illya stepped forward to give him a hand, but Napoleon waved him away. The Russian watched with concern, but Napoleon made it to his feet and exhaled, trying to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Marton casually offered a handkerchief to Napoleon, but the American gave him a dark look, remembering the last time he'd seen one of Marton's handkerchiefs in action. Marton shrugged and put the handkerchief away.

"Are you alright?" Illya asked.

"Do I look alright!?" Napoleon snapped. He exhaled as Illya blanched. "Sorry. I'll manage. Let's try to find a back way out."

Napoleon limped along with Illya staying nearby in case he needed help. Ordinarily, Illya wouldn't have waited to give him support, but Napoleon's previously good mood had soured in a matter seconds, and this was one of the first times in a long time that Napoleon had snapped at him. Illya didn't hold it against him, of course; between his recovery from amnesia and the undoubtedly intense pain, Napoleon wasn't on top of his mental game, and Illya wasn't going to make it any more difficult for him than it was already.

Marton followed silently behind them, looking rather vexed at not being able to leave by the front door.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked, sounding very bored.

"Kitchen," Napoleon said, through gritted teeth. "Back doors are there sometimes—helps with bringing in the groceries."

He opened the kitchen door, only to be greeted by a knife hurtling towards his face. Illya immediately tackled him to the ground as Marton stepped aside, wide-eyed with surprise. Napoleon let out a howl of agony as Illya's leg struck his ankle.

"I'm sorry!" Illya exclaimed again.

" _Get off of me_!" Napoleon bellowed.

Illya did as he was told, and then glared at Marton.

"That knife was your doing, wasn't it?" he accused.

"Why must every single thing be my fault!?" the THRUSH executive countered. "I already told you, if I had desired to do away with you, I would have done so outside! More than likely, it was set up by someone who had been searching this house before us!"

" _Da_ , very likely another THRUSH agent—who would have told you about it in advance!"

"Monsieur Kuryakin, surely you are aware of the infighting that occurs among THRUSH? One of my colleagues could easily have prepared that trap knowing I was coming here!"

"I cannot blame them," Illya muttered, and he looked back at Napoleon, concerned. "Napoleon-"

"I'm fine," the American said, sharply. He got to his knees, and then shook some mental cobwebs away. His voice softened. "I… Illya?"

Illya blinked; Napoleon suddenly looked very confused.

"Napoleon?"

"I… ah…" Napoleon looked around, staring at the knife that had missed him. "…Oh, that would've been bad. I owe you one, _Tovarisch_." He tried to get up, but winced at the pain in his ankle. "Agh… Illya, can you readjust my splint? I don't think I did it right." He held his leg out to Illya, who stared, not daring to move. "Ah, hello? Earth to Illya? You in there?"

"Are you certain you want me to readjust the splint?" Illya asked.

"…Only one of us has any medical knowledge, so, obviously, yes," Napoleon said. "Why'd I even do this myself, anyway? Ow…" He winced as Illya took his ankle, but didn't react as he had reacted back in the hall. He was acting normal now, with his pain threshold back to where it should be. He sighed in relief as Illya readjusted the splint. "Oh, that's much better…"

Illya was quiet as he finished and stood up. Napoleon held out a hand, expecting Illya to pull him up. Illya hesitated again, but then took Napoleon's hand and helped him up. Napoleon then placed his arm around Illya's shoulders, using him for support.

"Sorry I've delegated you to crutch duty," he said, with a wan smile. The smile soon faded. "Why are you looking at me like that—like I've grown two heads or something…?"

"Your behavior moments ago is nothing at all like it is now," Marton informed him, also puzzled by this sudden change. "In fact, I was finding it difficult to believe that the two of you had garnered a reputation as U.N.C.L.E.'s dream team, given the way you were treating Monsieur Kuryakin."

"The way I treated him…?" Napoleon trailed off, looking on in stunned disbelief. " _What_? Illya, is this some kind of sick joke?"

"It isn't your fault, Napoleon. You're still recovering from your bout of amnesia; you must be having residual effects, one of which is irritability, no doubt exacerbated by your ankle—which, you'll be pleased to know, is merely sprained and not broken."

But Napoleon looked absolutely mortified.

"What did I say?"

"It doesn't matter," Illya assured him, happy and relieved that his partner was acting normally again. "You merely snapped under stress-"

"It matters to me!" Napoleon insisted. "Even when I had amnesia, I didn't snap at you! Why would I snap now?"

"Napoleon, the brain is a very complex organ," Illya said, gently. "I have put the matter behind me; you do so and focus on getting better."

Napoleon sighed again, clearly discomfited that he had snapped at Illya, and realizing that Illya's reluctance to treat his leg was probably because of that. He tightened his grip around Illya's shoulders, prompting the Russian to give him a reassuring smile as he helped him to the back door.

"If you wish, you can have Medical look at you more thoroughly…" Illya trailed off as the back door, like the front, refused to budge.

"Oh, no…" Napoleon groaned.

Marton cursed under his breath.

"Now what, _Messieurs_?" he asked.

"We already came up with ideas; now it's your turn," Illya said.

"You wouldn't trust my decision anyway," Marton scoffed.

"Well, he has a point…" Napoleon mused. He turned to his partner. "Window?"

"Window," Illya agreed. "We can go back to the windows in the hall; I had taken down one of the planks boarding it up to get you your splint. We can get out through that way."

"Sounds like a plan," Napoleon said, with a nod.

They turned around to hobble back the way they had come, but as they made their way across the kitchen, they were suddenly aware of the sound of rattling metal. As Napoleon and Illya turned to look, the both of them stared as cutlery drawers opened of their own accord and started flinging themselves in Napoleon's direction.

"Illya!" he yelped.

Illya quickly lifted Napoleon in a fireman's carry and ran for it, with Marton right behind them.

"I suppose you will blame me for this, _non_?"

"As much as I would like to, I don't," Illya countered. He placed Napoleon back down as they returned to the drawing room. "Are you alright, Napoleon?"

"I think so…" the American murmured. "I just don't understand why all of the cutlery wanted to attack me, though. It makes no sense!"

"Unless…" Marton mused.

"Unless what?"

"Unless the document we scoffed at is, in fact, true," Marton finished. "Monsieur Solo, did you, perchance, look into one of these mirrors?"

"You've _got_ to be kidding," Napoleon said, incredulously.

"Oh, I'm quite serious about this," Marton said. "The world is full of many strange phenomena, Monsieur Solo. Many strange and impossible things end up happening; what excludes this?"

"…OK, I'll bite. So let's assume that the old document is right about the mirror. That would be implying that my deepest fear is getting attacked by phantom cutlery," Napoleon said. "If the mirror really was reflecting my deepest fears, then I'd be drowning in a well right now, not dodging forks!"

"And as for whether or not Napoleon looked into a mirror, the way they are strewn about the walls, it is impossible to _not_ look into one of the mirrors!" Illya added, not as willing to entertain the idea as Napoleon was.

"It was merely a suggestion, _Messieurs_ ; you are free to believe what you wish," Marton said. "But now, _I_ wish to have another look at that document."

Marton turned to return to the study.

"Okay, fine," Napoleon said. "We'll be leaving once we get the planks off of—AAAUGH!"

"Napoleon!?" Illya exclaimed, as his partner let go of him and began to sink into the floor.

Even Marton stopped, staring in some amount of shock as a shadowy mass writhed on the floor around Napoleon, swirling around him and trying to pull him down further through the floor.

"ILLYA!" he cried, fear gripping his features as he sank waist-deep. "ILLYA, _HELP ME_!"

Illya, who had been looking on in speechless horror, now snapped out of his daze and grabbed Napoleon's hand. Napoleon was now up to his chest and still sinking further.

" _ILLYA_!" he cried again.

"I'm trying!" Illya gasped, straining from the effort of trying to pull Napoleon back. But whatever it was that had a hold on Napoleon was only pulling back further; Napoleon was soon up to his neck—and then up to his chin, then his nose. And it broke Illya's heart to see those brown eyes wide in pleading fear as Napoleon's hand slipped from his own grip. " _Nyet_! Napoleon! _NAPOLEON_!"

And then he was gone; the shadowy mass that Napoleon had disappeared into vanished through the floor, leaving behind the old wooden floorboards. And Illya could only stare at the spot in horror. His partner had depended on him—had been pleading with him for help—and Illya hadn't been able to help him. After all that Napoleon had done for him over the last eight years, Illya hadn't been able to save him when he had needed him most.

"Napoleon…" he whispered. "Oh, Napoleon…"

"…Monsieur Kuryakin, I believe there is a cellar beneath this old house," Marton said. "That must be where Monsieur Solo has… fallen."

"Then I will find him," Illya vowed, prying at the floorboards with a small crowbar he had brought along with the rest of his supplies. Sure enough, there was another room down there; Illya quickly attached a grappling hook to the nearby sofa leg and used it to climb down into the hole.

Marton watched in silence as Illya clambered down, calling for his partner.

"Napoleon!? Napoleon, where are you!?"

It was cold and damp; mist seemed to be swirling around this cellar; Illya called for his partner, but received no response. It was only after he stumbled over Napoleon's immobile form that Illya found him.

"Napoleon! Wake up!"

He cracked open a capsule of smelling salts and held it under Napoleon's nose. The American stirred slightly, and then opened his eyes with a groan.

"Napoleon, are you alright!?"

Napoleon glanced at Illya with an expression colder than ice.

"No thanks to you," he scowled.

"Napoleon, I am so sorry," Illya said. "I tried to-"

"Really? I didn't see you trying anything. You just stood there like an idiot and then tried to grab me—too little, too late! Since when did you become so useless!?"

Illya's jaw dropped. Napoleon had reverted back to the cold, caustic person that he had been when first having hurt his ankle. Was it the stress affecting him again? Illya sighed; if so, he couldn't hold it against him now, either.

"I'm sorry," Illya said again.

"Skip the broken record, huh?" Napoleon shot back, scowling. "Marton was right; this was about the mirror. That thing in the mirror is out to get me; that became clear when it sent me through the floor, while you did nothing for the first five minutes of it—even when I was pleading with you to do something! Do you realize that your incompetence nearly got me killed!? I clearly can't depend on you anymore! But maybe if you had a bit of religion in your life, it wouldn't have taken you so long to react to the fact that something unexplained was happening!"

He angrily glared at Illya, who had paled at Napoleon's words. Never once in the eight years they had known each other had Napoleon ever said a negative word about Illya being an agnostic—until now. Illya shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Napoleon had every right to be angry with him; Illya had, after all, frozen up helplessly when Napoleon had needed him most. Everything that Napoleon was saying now was in anger; surely… surely he did not mean it…

"I am truly sorry," Illya began, but a strangled sob from Napoleon caused him to look back at his partner. "Napoleon-!?"

Napoleon had covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide in horror again, but not because of being scared for his own self this time, but, rather, for what he had just said, for he, too, realized that he had said things that he never would have even _thought_ of, let alone say out loud.

"I didn't… I didn't mean…!" he began, looking disgusted with himself now. "I would never…!"

"Napoleon, it is alright," Illya insisted. "I know you are not yourself because of your recovery and the stress-"

"No!" Napoleon said, shaking his head. "No, that's not it…! Illya, there's something wrong with me—something really, _really_ wrong…!"

Illya ventured forward, gently touching Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon gripped Illya's hand in his, shaking like a leaf.

"Napoleon…" Illya said, gently. "Napoleon, we have been through much together; we can get through this, as well-"

Napoleon's eyes suddenly widen before narrowing with a darkened expression; he stopped shaking and now pushed Illya's wrist away.

"Maybe I don't want us to get through this!" he snarled. "Maybe I don't want there to _be_ an 'us' anymore!"

"Napoleon…!" Illya gasped.

"You're on your own," Napoleon snarled, and then he turned and walked away without another word.

"Napoleon…!" Illya called. "Napoleon, listen to me! You are not in your right mind—either it's from your previous amnesia or…" He swallowed hard, forcing himself to accept the possibility of something he didn't understand—something that the rational laws of science just couldn't explain. "…Or maybe it is the mirror! But this is not the real you! If you destroy the mirror, it might help…!"

Would it really? Would it not? Illya didn't know anymore; all he knew is that he wanted his partner back—the Napoleon Solo who had come to this house with his arm around Illya's shoulders.

The Russian shut his eyes, cringing. During the time Napoleon had been amnesiac, he had been so afraid that Napoleon would treat him differently and distantly, or would just leave altogether. But Napoleon had stuck by him, recognizing they were close, even if he didn't remember. But now… Napoleon was acting cold towards him and was turning on him; it was as though Illya's nightmares were coming to life before his very eyes…

Illya's eyes snapped open.

 _Nightmares_ … he silently repeated.

First, Napoleon got hurt, and anything Illya did only made it worse. Then, Napoleon snapped at him, treating him caustically, but was clearly shocked that he had done so. And then, Napoleon had been in need of his help, but Illya had been too frozen to do anything when Napoleon had needed him most. And now, Napoleon was turning on him, saying cruel things and abandoning him…

 _Bozhe moy_ , _if the mirror is truly what the old paper claims, then the mirror wasn't tapping into Napoleon's fears—it was tapping into_ _mine_ _! Napoleon kept getting affected by it because all of my fears concern him—getting hurt without my being able to aid him… treating me poorly… The only fears the mirror hasn't shown me yet are_ … Illya's eyes widened in horror as the realization sunk in. … _Either_ _Napoleon's death, or my death at his hands…!_

He had to smash the mirror-had to smash it before his deepest fears came true and either Napoleon or himself met his end here!

"Napoleon!" he called, as he ran back towards the grappling hook. "Napoleon, hold on! I'll save you!" Assuming the mirror's curse was real, of course—at this point, Illya didn't know what to believe, but he was willing to try anything if it would mean saving his partner and bringing him back to his usual self.

He clambered up the grappling hook, glancing at Marton.

"It was _me_ ," he said, shaking his head. "The mirror chose _me_."

"…That makes sense now," Marton mused as Illya tried to retrace his steps.

Illya shut his eyes.

"Napoleon was the one paying attention to the mirrors," he muttered aloud. "The only mirror I looked into for any extended amount of time was…" He trailed off, looking at the ornately-framed mirror above the fireplace.

He ran towards the mirror, but then found his path blocked by Napoleon ( _did he just phase up through the floor!?_ ). Napoleon's eyes were glazed over, but his blank eyes were staring at Illya without their usual love.

" _Nyet_ …!" Illya gasped, backing away slightly. "Napoleon…!"

"He's gone mad!" Marton exclaimed, aiming his THRUSH-issued weapon at Napoloen.

"No!" Illya said. He tore his gaze away from Napoleon and grabbed his Special, using it to shoot Marton's weapon out of his hand.

Unfortunately, Illya had just given the mirror-controlled Napoleon an idea; Napoleon drew his own Special now, holding it at Illya's forehead.

Illya didn't move; at first, it was because he was stricken by fear. But then, the fear dissipated, and he refused to move for another reason.

" _Da_ , this is one of the things I fear most," Illya said, quietly. "It is how Barnaby Partridge was able to brainwash me—feeding on the fear of you turning on me. But I no longer fear this, Napoleon. For I know that you would never allow it to come true, no matter how much this creature of the mirror will try to do so…"

Napoleon's Special clicked, and Illya didn't say another word, merely looking into Napoleon's eyes with a silent plea for his partner to return to his true self—the jovial, outgoing partner who had no concept of personal space, who would always drag him along to parties and gatherings or whatever adventure he had in mind, who would always seek to pull him out of any dark moods, who would spend countless hours by his side if he was in Medical, who would give up anything and everything he possessed—even his life—in an instant if it would help Illya in any way…

Recalling how Napoleon had snapped him out of the brainwashing back in Club Thanatopsis, Illya now did the same—gently but firmly touching Napoleon's face. And then, as he looked back into Illya's eyes, Napoleon's eyes widened in horror again as he struggled to reclaim his mind from the creature.

"Illya…!" he yelped. He dropped the Special, and then crashed to his knees on the floor, clutching at his head. Illya seized the opportunity to rush past him and pull the mirror from the wall.

But as he held the mirror high above his head, ready to bring it down, the shadowy mist poured out of Napoleon, forming a shapeless beast that morphed its form to have two arms with six-inch claws that were now slashing at Illya before he could bring the mirror down—

"NO!" Napoleon yelled.

Without a moment's hesitation, he leaped up and threw himself between the creature and Illya; and now Illya cried out as Napoleon was sent hurtling across the room with parallel gashes on his side. But the creature was distracted for a moment, and Illya seized the moment to bring the mirror down, where it gained a network of cracks, but did not shatter.

The creature shrieked and writhed in pain, and Illya almost went for the mirror again, but the sight of Napoleon lying motionless on the ground was too much. And so, as Marton retrieved his weapon and now attempted to fire at the creature, Illya ran to Napoleon's side and gently cradled his upper body in his arms.

"Napoleon…?" he asked, gently touching the side of Napoleon's face again. Napoleon did not move at first, and had it not been for the bleeding gashes as proof of his blood still circulating, Illya would have sworn he had lost him.

The shadowy creature from the mirror didn't seem to be affected by Marton's shots; it now shrieked in a mix of anger and pain—a shriek that made Illya's spine tingle with fear as the beast advanced on him and Napoleon.

The shriek had also caused Napoleon to shudder; his eyes opened slightly, and he trembled as he saw the creature approach. Marton continued to fire, but in vain; the beast was ignoring the THRUSH executive completely in favor of its prey.

"Illya…" Napoleon gasped, his voice quivering as it has during the time last year when Strothers had tortured a false confession out of him. "Illya… run."

" _Nyet_ …! I shall not leave you!"

"Mirror…" Napoleon said. "You've got to…"

Illya looked at the cracked mirror, lying where he had thrown it. He had put all of his strength into trying to shatter the mirror; why had it only cracked? Unless…

"Together," he said.

"Wha…?" Napoleon asked, as Illya took his hand and held it so that they were both holding onto Illya's Special.

"We both looked into that mirror…" Illya said, as the creature leered above them, raising its clawed hands. "And so now we both must…"

They fired the gun, together, and as the bullet struck the mirror and shattered it, the creature shrieked and tried to follow through with its strike. Illya struggled to shield his partner as best he could, bracing himself for the feel of the claws about to strike…

But there was nothing; they could only feel their own trembles of fear. Illya opened his eyes first, exhaling as he saw nothing.

"It has vanished, _Messieurs_ ," Marton confirmed. "And it looks as though the front door has opened; I shall take my leave of you now and report to THRUSH Central that the artifact in question has been destroyed, but would have been beyond our ability to control anyway. …I'll have Alexander alerted to your dilemma."

Illya ignored him, determined to call Waverly himself once he patched Napoleon up as best as he could now—he had to stop the bleeding! Fortunately, he had brought a first aid kit with the supplies and began to set about cleaning and bandaging the gashes.

Napoleon's eyes shot open now as Illya applied the antiseptic to the wounds. His eyes—clear and brown as they usually were—sought Illya's blue ones. And Illya saw the deep regret and sorrow in them, along with the horror of realizing the things he had said and did.

"Illya…" he whispered. "Illya, I… I'm so sorry…"

"It is alright, Napoleon."

"No…! No, it isn't!" Napoleon said. He hissed as Illya continued to treat the gashes. "I… The things I said and did… The way I treated you…! Illya, I nearly _killed_ you!"

Illya shook his head as he now applied the bandages.

"You do not hold what happened at Club Thanatopsis against me; why would this be any different?" He tied the bandages off; they would do for a while, but Napoleon would need to get stitches from Medical. He sighed and continued. "You were not yourself, Napoleon. I know the real you; that was how I knew that, in spite of my fear, it wouldn't come true."

Napoleon just gave his head a shake and then drew Illya into a hug. The Russian didn't move for a moment, as though he was indulging in it, but then returned it.

"I was… puzzled as to why you forgave me so quickly after Club Thanatopsis," the Russian said, quietly. "I understand now. You suffered, as well."

"Just tell me one thing…" Napoleon said, also quietly. "How am I supposed to forgive myself?"

"It is a long and difficult process," Illya admitted. "But the kind words you said to me after the mission helped; so I shall help you-"

Illya's communicator went off, and the Russian answered it; he confirmed to Mr. Waverly that they would need an extraction and, as Marton had apparently relayed, the item that everyone had been seeking was now destroyed.

"I do not know how much Marton told him about exactly what happened," Illya said, putting the communicator away. He looked around at the shards of mirror on the floor. "And I do not know what we are to write for the mission report. I suppose we could say that the mold spores in this old place affected our minds—made us see things, and made you act unlike yourself. And your wounds were from the broken mirror shards."

"Is that merely for Mr. Waverly's benefit, or are you trying to convince yourself that it wasn't some creature in a mirror that did this?" Napoleon asked, quietly.

Illya exhaled.

"Napoleon," he said. "I doubt I shall ever come to a conclusion as to what happened here tonight. All I know is that, like that night we spent in Moonlit Gulch, something happened that we simply cannot explain."

The American cast a glance at the floor.

"Yeah, but I didn't turn on you or nearly kill you back in Moonlit Gulch. So that was what you were afraid of? Is that what Barnaby Partridge made you see? You mentioned that when you were… trying to get through to me."

" _Da_ ," Illya said. "He played on my fears of you turning on me to brainwash me into turning against you first. I had a moment of weakness, and despite knowing better than to believe it was true, succumbed to his treatments. I still regret that, Napoleon."

"That's why you didn't doubt me this time, even when I held a gun up to your head; you wanted to make up for that…" Napoleon realized. "You took a big chance, Illya. What if I hadn't snapped out of it in time?"

"I could ask the same of you regarding Club Thanatopsis," Illya said, glibly. "I think we both know the answer to that, Napoleon. With this world being as uncertain as it is, it is important that we have at least one thing in our lives we know we can depend upon. And now we know we can."

Napoleon finally managed a smile.

"Yeah, it's like you said…" he mused. "We have each other."

"That, we do," Illya nodded, smiling back. "Now let's get out of this place and wait for the extraction."

He resumed his role as Napoleon's crutch as they hobbled outside, relieved to breathe the fresh air once more as they sat on the front steps of the porch. Even if they never fully understood what happened here, they could, at least, take comfort in the fact that they had gotten through it together—and would continue to do so with all other obstacles in their way.


End file.
